CARE WORK LOG POEM
Day one.
Walk in slow, breathe stale air,
Coffee, lavender, old despair.
She says, “I don’t need help today,”
But her thin arms shake like branches sway.
You lift her up from toilet’s throne,
Skin on bone, cold as stone.
Pull her pants, keep her pride,
No thanks given. None implied.
Day three.
She speaks of him with far-off eyes,
Husband lost to earth and skies.
“He fixed the porch, the leaking sink,”
You nod along. Just let her think.
The kettle screams its lonely tune,
Steam rising like a ghost at noon.
Day five.
You sweep crumbs off linoleum floors,
Notice holes in slippers she wears indoors.
Toes peek out, bruised and pale,
You write it down. Doubt it’ll prevail.
Day seven.
She laughs at a funeral ad today,
A laugh cracked dry like desert clay.
But life flickers there in gloom,
Like a candle fighting a silent room.
This is care work.
Dark and real.
No bright lights.
No grand appeal.
Just holding up what time tears down,
A silent hero without a crown.
Hiring caregivers with steel and grace,
Who stand unblinking in this place.
Apply today.
